


kiss me where i lay down

by trustingno1



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:23:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And you thought the Airstream was the tackiest place we'd ever do this," he murmurs.</p><p>"Still is," she replies, against his mouth, hands between them, unbuttoning his vest, and he makes a noise like he's hurt.</p><p>(7x13 missing scene).</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss me where i lay down

**Author's Note:**

> Flowery, euphemistic sex ahead. I mean, seriously, the word "cock" does not feature once. It's like I took Bruno Heller's comment comparing Jane/Lisbon to an Austen novel and just _ran_ with it.

  
  
He stretches his arm out on the log behind her --  
  
"Seriously?" she asks, between kisses, but she's starting to laugh. "Here?"  
  
"We're _engaged_ ," he says, and her thumb touches his lips, affectionately.  
  
"Won't stop us getting arrested for public lewdness," she says, and he kisses her again, slow and deliberate.  
  
"Arrested?" he repeats, when he pulls back. "Meh. A warning, _maybe_ , and only if we're unlucky."  
  
She laughs again - so incandescently _happy_ it almost hurts - and he kisses her smile.  
  
"I'm not paying to have this dry cleaned," she says, pushing up a bit to shrug out of her coat, and he helps her tug it down her arms.  
  
" _Everything's_ a negotiation with you," he teases, mouthing at her jaw.  
  
" _Hush_ ," she says, without heat - then, more seriously, "Not everything."  
  
"No," he says, softly, because she's going to _marry_ him, without hesitation or doubt, "Not everything."  
  
He leans into her, over her, and she resists for only a moment - pausing to pull her gun from its holster, placing it just out of reach - before she lets him press her into the ground.  
  
"Hey," she says, with a tiny, helpless smile, and he brushes his lips over hers.  
  
"And you thought the Airstream was the tackiest place we'd ever do this," he murmurs.  
  
"Still is," she replies, against his mouth, hands between them, unbuttoning his vest, and he makes a noise like he's hurt.  
  
Her hands are warm through his shirt, under his open vest, and she strokes his sides, his back, fingertips flirting with the waistband of his trousers.  
  
He kisses her, licking into her mouth, and she sighs into his, her hand on his jaw directing him, just gently. He braces himself on one elbow, reaching down between them to tug at her belt impatiently.  
  
"You couldn't have worn a dress today?" he murmurs, and she rolls her eyes, slapping his hand away. She unbuckles her belt, undoes her jeans, her lips still brushing against his.  
  
"Didn't think this'd be happening when I got _dressed_ this morning, Jane."  
  
"This part, or ...?" he trails off, and she laughs, her breath warm against his mouth.  
  
"Any of it," she says, swallowing, hard, her voice gentle and _wondering_ , like _he's_ the one who's done something amazing. He kisses the corner of her mouth, delicately, and she turns into it for a moment.  
  
She tugs her jeans and underwear down over her hips, squirming as she toes off her shoes, pushing up and rubbing against him, and he ducks his head and groans into her hair. She pauses; pushes her thigh up against him more deliberately, and he grinds down against her, into her.  
  
She unbuttons his trousers without looking, and, one-handed, he helps her wrestle them down enough. He rubs against her bare thigh, shivery little pushes, and she catches a hand around the back of his neck, fingernails scratching lightly.  
  
"Do you have anything?" he asks, against her neck, and she's trembling with laughter.  
  
"Yeah, sure, I picked up some condoms with the sandwiches," she deadpans, and he nips at her earlobe, reproachfully.  
  
He touches her gently - the inside of her thighs - as he urges her legs apart, kneeling between them, and she hooks one high over his hip.  
  
He turns his head to spit into his palm, and she turns her head to hide her laugh. "This is _so_ not classy."  
  
"Classy's overrated."  
  
"Beds aren't, though," she says, pointedly.  
  
"Stop complaining, woman," he murmurs, slicking himself with his spit, guiding himself into her, and her reply is lost in a gasp as he sinks inside her, and he pauses for a moment, leans down to press his cheek against hers.  
  
She shifts against him when she's ready, and he pulls back, pushes back in, and there's a soft hitch in her breath before she turns towards him, their mouths meeting in a messy kiss that's mostly tongue and _celebration_.  
  
She matches his rhythm - an unhurried, indulgent rolling of their hips - and one of her hands steals down between them, her fingertips rubbing tight, firm circles where she needs it, sometimes just brushing where he's still leisurely pushing into her.  
  
"I love you," he says, into her ear, "and I'm going to _marry_ you," and he can _feel_ it building, can see the flush on her chest in the vee of her top, and her teeth catch and slowly release her lower lip.  
  
He pushes up on one hand, his other hand nudging hers out of the way, and he can't move as much, braced like this, but he touches her and watches her, and she only closes her eyes when she comes, trembling, mouth falling open in a silent gasp, and he rubs her through it, hips still rocking.  
  
She opens her eyes, slowly, and stills his hand, before tugging him back on top of her, and he braces himself on his forearms, fingers tangling in her hair and it won't be long until it's uncomfortable for her, but he's not going to _last_ long, her hand at the nape of his neck, her legs around his hips, her breath against his throat, and he spends himself with a groan.  
  
He takes a couple of shuddering breaths before he pulls out, rolling to the side as he relaxes, hunting around in his vest pocket for his handkerchief. She takes it from him, but makes no move to clean up just yet, and he props himself up on one elbow, pressed up against her.  
  
She catches his gaze and flushes.  
  
"You're blushing," he teases, kissing her temple, and she jabs at him, softly, with her elbow, and turns her head, glancing over at the shack.  
  
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" she deadpans, ignoring him.  
  
He picks a leaf out of her hair.  
  
"Making it up as I go," he kids, and she laughs. "No," he amends, and he's smiling but he's serious; she's still looking at the house, but he's looking at her, and he adds, honestly, "I do. I have - I have a plan."  
  
  



End file.
